


Is remembering not silent mourning?

by TheWeirdDane



Series: Monster fucking [25]
Category: Dracula & Related Fandoms, Dracula (TV 2020), Dracula - Bram Stoker
Genre: Blood As Lube, Cunnilingus, F/M, Original Character Death(s), Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shameless Smut, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:28:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23080963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWeirdDane/pseuds/TheWeirdDane
Summary: Count Dracula remembers each and everyone of his brides. Even the ones that don't get to travel with him in the eternal life.
Relationships: Dracula/Original Character(s)
Series: Monster fucking [25]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/450385
Comments: 2
Kudos: 60





	Is remembering not silent mourning?

**Author's Note:**

> So, I just watched the BBC/Netflix series, Dracula, and as the OG vampire fucker that I am, I had to write something for it. Oops?

Blood. Blood flowing, trickling, gushing, streaming. Blood - the storyteller of lives. The scent of blood hung in the air, intoxicating and rich and divine and invigorating. He couldn’t get enough of it.

The taste of it - heavy, metallic, like sucking on an iron coin, a sharp edge, a tingling sensation as he drank it down, full drop for full drop that stained his lips, his chin, his throat. The thick, potent liquid seeped down his throat - inside as well as outside. His loathing of wasting the oh so important, life-giving fluid was drowned out by his delight for wallowing in it, letting it completely overwhelm and overpower him. 

Count Dracula growled - a deep, grating sound in the back of his throat - and pulled back to take in a mouthful of oxygen before once more burying his face in the warm, waiting neck. The gash was deep, not the two perfect puncture wounds that legends described the bite of a vampire to be like. No, it was deep and open, and the blood gushed from it like water in a busy river. Count Dracula didn’t let it go to waste. He tongued at it for a second or two before putting his lips to the gaping wound to eagerly, hungrily gulp down the blood. 

There was a weak groan, and a trembling hand came up to touch his cheek. 

“Yes,” rasped a feeble voice, however weak still distinctly female, “yes, p-please, take it, I give it... willingly...” 

Count Dracula hushed her gently with his mouth full, so it was more of a strangled, gurgling sound, and he caressed her lengthy, auburn hair, his long fingers with the long, sharp nails going through the strands so very tenderly. There was no reason for him to be so kind and tender with her, and yet - yet, he was. 

His short, black hair, usually slicked back, was now loose and unruly, a few strands hanging down in front of his face but without obstructing his work. 

“Can you undress?” he asked, voice low and rough, and pulled back once more to breathe in deeply and look down at her with those deep, dark eyes that one could so easily get lost in. 

The hand formerly at his cheek made its way to her dress, unzipping it on the front. It was done slowly, unsurely, but it was done nonetheless. 

The time she spent taking off her dress, he spent admiring her. 

Her hair - auburn, reaching down to her waist, parting in her left side - was so very pretty, and he couldn’t help but caress it again. She let out a weak sound and got her arms free to push down the dress. Her almond-shaped eyes were now closed, but Count Dracula remembered every one of his brides. Even the ones that didn’t stay with him for long. 

And this bride - oh was she ever gorgeous! Her eyes were like the biggest, brightest emeralds found on this Earth, and he longed to see them again. 

“Open your eyes, my love,” he whispered and licked over the still bleeding wound in her neck. 

Her eyelids twitched for a few seconds, but eventually, they withdrew to expose those beautiful emeralds, and all air was knocked out of Count Dracula. 

“Exquisite,” he whispered breathlessly and slid his hand from her hair to her cheek, stroking her soft, pale skin. She was so wonderfully pale. Not sickly, not with yellow, parchment-like skin - just a natural pale tone that got only paler the more blood was stolen away from her. 

His nails scraped gingerly down her cheek, and she let out a frail sound, her eyes falling closed once more. 

“Get out of that lovely dress, please,” he said quietly and pulled away just enough that she had space to obey his command. Something she didn’t hesitate to do. Her movements were slow and shaky, but she worked as fast as she could, which wasn’t fast at all. But Count Dracula had learned to appreciate the gift of delayed gratification, and the longer she took, the more he looked forward to taking her. 

His eyes roamed over her body as it was gradually exposed to him. Her frame was narrow and slim, her breasts a small handful each, and her bony shoulders full of freckles. Her ribs were just barely visible as she arched her back and made a weak, delicious noise in the back of her throat. 

She lifted her hips to wiggle out of the dress, and Count Dracula was kind enough to help, pulling down the fabric with inhuman strength and speed. This caused the dress to rip with a tearing sound. No doubt she would have bemoaned this fact if she had had the brain cells and energy to spare.

As it was, however, she could only whine and open her eyes the slightest bit, enough to just barely look at him. He returned the look - hers weak but revealing so much pleasure, his hungry and eager and predatory. 

She thrust her pelvis and whined again, making the Count laugh. 

“Soon, my precious one,” he then whispered and kissed her throat again, drawing out more blood and sounds from his victim. His hand still rested on her face, holding her head still even as she tried to jerk it to the side. He lightly scolded her and decided to be even slower, just to further punish her. 

He so loved playing with his food. 

His other hand travelled down her body, tracing the curve of her breast and not long after her waist, then her bony hip, not forgetting her thigh. 

He could smell her arousal - heavy and thick and, together with the overwhelming scent of her blood, clouding his mind. 

“Can you spread your legs for me?” he asked quietly and began kissing his way down. He took his time, only slowly moving further down her body even though she almost immediately spread her legs. His lips, doused in fresh as well as dried blood, pressed gently against porcelain skin and slid down between her breasts, not bothering with tender caresses here, and lower, lower, lower, until he could kiss her stomach firmly. 

He might even have left his mark there.

His teeth caught on her belly button, and the breath hitched in her throat, her pelvis thrusting upwards once more. The Count hummed and looked up at her face. Her mouth was slack and open in a fine ‘O’, lips trembling slightly, and her eyes were closed, nostrils flaring. 

Her legs were spread, but not enough for his liking, and he nudged them further apart before sinking his long, sharp teeth into her right thigh, opening another wound and eagerly drinking the blood that flowed so freely. This wound was smaller - he didn’t want her to succumb to exhaustion or loss of blood before he had had his way with her. 

After that, it would only be a matter of her strength - maybe she would rise again. Maybe she would not. 

It would all be up to her.

While drinking her blood, he lifted up a hand to finger her. His finger sank into her easily, and she let out a pathetic whimper that perfectly illustrated how long she had been waiting for just that. She clenched down around him - probably without realizing it, the poor thing! - and once more arched her back the slight bit that her weakness permitted. 

“Yes,” she rasped, “yes, t-that... That feels so good...”

Count Dracula chuckled to himself and inserted another finger, taking pride in the wanton moan that trickled past her lips.  _ He _ was doing this to her,  _ he _ was rendering her so helpless and full of pleasure. Soon, she would probably call him her saviour!

Pumping in and out of her slowly but none-too-gently, the Count licked languidly at the open wound on her thigh, feeling life course through him - it was dizzying, electrifying. And he loved it. He wouldn’t have it any other way. 

She let out a gurgling sound as he thrust  _ a third _ finger inside her, and once he moved them at a hard, fast pace, she was all but sobbing with pleasure. Her legs trembled as she struggled to keep them spread, and she was dripping wet. Her hands rested in his hair without doing much aside from quivering. 

Count Dracula wasn’t above using his victims’ blood as lubrication, and this lovely lady was no exception. So, he got up so that he could drip the warm, precious life-force onto her cunt and finger her with it. She gasped and mewled pathetically, craning her neck and then moaning - possibly in pain, probably in pleasure. With a smile on his lips, he pressed his face against her cunt and licked her clit. He flicked his tongue over the throbbing bud, and she thrashed weakly, moaning and whimpering, her fingers twitching slightly in his hair.

He hushed her and closed his eyes, sucking on and kissing the sensitive spot until she came with a feeble cry. But even then, he didn’t cease his rough thrusts - no, he kept going until she begged him to stop.

“P-Please,” she whispered shakily, “please, stop, I-I-I can’t take it anymore...”

Count Dracula hummed and pulled his head back, but kept fingering her, hard and fast and deep. 

“What, my dear Sun, makes you think I have even half a mind to stop?” he asked, voice soft and smooth as silk. 

She whimpered. He smiled. 

With his clean hand, he undid his trousers and pulled out his hard, throbbing cock. Pushing inside the poor but lovely lady in front of him was done quite unceremoniously - he pulled out his fingers and pushed in his cock with a deep, long growl, sinking balls-deep into the wet heat and not in the slightest caring about her cry of pain. He was quite well-endowed. This, he knew, and this was a lot of fun for him when he had sex with someone. Their face of surprise, maybe even outright horror, as he undressed and gave them a view of what was to come - it was something to behold and treasure. 

“Hush now, my darling,” he groaned and climbed up her body to sink his fangs into the wound on her neck, tearing at already torn skin and tasting fresh blood spurt into his mouth. He moaned and closed his eyes, sucking on the wound and drinking down the blood like his life depended on it. Which, one might say, it quite literally did. “It’ll only be better from here on out,” he added in a whisper and began pulling back and pushing in repeatedly. The thrusts were deep and slow, but hard, and it was everything Count Dracula could have ever wanted. 

She felt amazing - her body lax and pliant, he could do whatever he wanted with her. She was still alive, however faint her heartbeat and breathing. Her beating was a dull, low bass in his ears, and the veins gushing out blood tried valiantly to mend themselves. Her breathing was shallow, raspy, and wet, and Count Dracula knew he had only little time before she would succumb to the deadly exhaustion she was feeling. 

Knowing this, and not willing to be called someone who had sex with dead people, he pulled out again. His cock was covered in her blood and juices, creating the most delicious scent, and he inhaled deeply through his nose, eager to commit the smell to memory so that he would never forget it. 

The time it took him to commit the smell to memory was all the time her body needed to give up. She sighed softly, and her head lolled to the side, her eyes open but unseeing. 

Count Dracula watched her for a few seconds, his own head tilted slightly and a light frown on his face. He had been so sure that this one would survive... 

But he had clearly been wrong. 

With a quiet, vexed sigh, he closed her eyes and pulled back, admiring her for another couple of seconds before leaving to take a shower. The servants would deal with her. 

He didn’t exactly mourn the brides he lost along the way. Remembered them, yes, treasured them, yes, but never mourned. No-one had come close enough that mourning them was important or even something that felt necessary.

But he remembered every one of them. That, he did. 

And, in a way, was remembering really not the same as mourning? 

**Author's Note:**

> Like my stories and want to scream at me? Got something monstrous on your mind? Come say hi @ monsterfucker-mcgee.tumblr.com!  
> Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed <3


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